In Full Circle
by SondiDondi
Summary: I've always felt that the typical 'during the missing 19 years' story doesn't do justice to the rest of the story, nor fully satisfy the readers. Tired of reading half-assed attempts, here's my shot. Harry/Ginny
1. Out of the Wardrobe, into the Moonlight

Though many have attempted it, I've never felt like the aftermath of the war has been done justice. With all due respect for everyone else who has attempted to do so, here's _my_ attempt at the mysterious 19-year gap in book seven.

To everyone who's followed me since All Mine, I just wanted to thank you, and assure you that there is no risk of story abandonment here. As always, I read every review, but responses are NOT guaranteed. If you're looking for one, I wholly encourage personal emails at . You are guaranteed a one-on-one conversation with me if you choose to do so.

Oh, and don't worry- this will be the shortest chapter.

And by the way, consider this my disclaimer.

…

Chapter One

"Harry?" she called out, padding silently through the deserted hallway. No answer. She tried again- he had not been heard from in weeks. He wasn't in the kitchen- 'master is ill', Kreacher had provided –nor was he on any of the lower floors.

Hermione found herself on the topmost landing, where she knew she would be close to finding him. "Harry?" she breathed against the door. No answer.

She laced the fingers of one hand around the silver handle, the palm of her other against the cold, unyielding wood. "Harry, open the door," a bit more firmly. Nothing, but she could _feel_ his presence in the otherwise still room in front of her. "Please," she added, more softly, when the door remained in place.

Once again, she pressed, and the door swung inward slightly.

He wasn't anywhere to be seen, and when she entered, the door shut behind her. "Harry?" she barely breathed. There was a whimper. She timidly stepped toward the ornate wardrobe from whence it came.

He was curled up at the bottom, an overlarge leather jacket wrapped around his too thin, quaking form.

"Harry." His face was shinning with thick, warm tears. Hermione sat on the floor, next to where he crouched, and softly rubbed between his shoulder blades even after his poorly muffled sobs subsided.

They stayed that way until long after the sun sank beneath the horizon, the good weather of late mocking his pain.

"I'm sorry," he muttered after a long while, refusing to meet her eyes.

"Don't be…" her hand started to rub his back again.

"It's just… I mean… It smells like him in here…" his voice cracked, and he turned away.

"I know." Several long moments of relaxed silence- she breathed in deep, and judging by the musty smell, he had left his hide-away only to relieve himself in the past couple of days.

"Have you been eating?" she asked gently. A non-committal shrug came as a reply, and a pause. "When… when was your last shower?" He stiffened against her, and shifted away slightly.

"Come on…" she whispered, tugging on his elbow. "Come on; let's get you cleaned up…"

He allowed her to lift him to his feet, and he swayed with dizziness. "Okay, okay… I've got you…" She led him slowly out of Sirius' room and into the bathroom, sat him down on the chair by the door, and ran the tap.

His breathing was quick and shallow with exhaustion- his body protested every movement. When she finished filling the ancient bath tub, she came to him and lifted his arms to remove his shirt. His protests barely escaped his lips, and she had trouble restraining her surprise at his appearance.

She had known that he had been malnourished on their journey- they all had- but she hadn't expected this emaciated appearance. His robs were visible through his papery skin, his hips jutted out at odd angles, and when she removed his pants and underwear, his thighs were no thicker than her feminine wrists.

She steadied him as he hobbled across the tile, his weak, naked form depending on hers for movement. "I'm s-sorry…" he kept slurring through silent tears. "Sorry…"

"Shhh…." The vibrations from her voice, coupled with her soothing heartbeat, eased his quivering apologies as she lifted him into the tub. "I know, I know…."

He was in the warm water, slumped against the side, giving up his battle for modesty as she pressed a glass of cool water to his lips and massaged his throat with a lathery cloth. She wiped grime from his shoulders, face, back and chest. She ran shampoo through his hair, multiple times, and followed with conditioner. She took extra care as she cleaned the edges of the parallel cuts on his left forearm and right thigh.

She ran the water clear three times, and continued cleansing and comforting him until his breathing was even and his smell was but of soap.

"Better?" she asked.

"Tired." The following silence was interrupted only by the sudden rumble of his stomach.

"Hungry?"

There was a shrug, followed by a pause. Then, "I don't know… I guess."

"Well, then, let's get some food." She helped him out of the tub and into a large towel, then led him back to the room. "Clothes?" he nodded toward the wardrobe, eyes firmly on the ground. All of the clothes were clearly too big for him, and so she settled for too long jeans and an overlarge sweatshirt.

He was dressed and standing tall and clean-shaven. "Wait…" he muttered half-heartedly as she took the towel to his hair and ears.

"Glasses?"

"No."

"Food?"

"Not here."

"Okay."

They were at the front door. "Are you ready?" He shrugged, furrowed his eyebrows, averted his eyes, and mashed his lips together. His stance was stiff and defensive.

"Come on…" they stepped into the moonlight.

…

"Is your sandwich okay?" He shrugged.

"Harry…" he stared down at his plate. "Harry, I know this is hard-"

"No, you don't" His voice was soft yet clear, his eyes on the moon outside the window. "You don't know." He took his hands off the table and seemed to fold into himself, crossing his arms so his hands rested on his narrow hips and his shoulders rolled forward.

"I know that you're hurting. Harry, I saw-"

"Stop." He cut across sharply. They sat like that, uncomfortable for the first time. The waitress replaced their drinks. Hermione said 'thank you'. Harry left the gesture unacknowledged.

"You're hurt. The last few years were terrible. Nobody _isn't_ hurt." There were several minutes of silence, her watching him intently, him gazing unseeingly out the window. Then-

"I can't go back. Not yet. I just… I can't."

"I know."


	2. Thurmar's Chair

Here's a shout out to Energy Train, my first ever reviewer. Don't worry, more to come.

**Chapter 2: Thurmar's Chair**

"So, have you spoken to any of them yet?" Healer Thurmar inquired, reviewing his notepad.

"The Weasley's?"

"Well, the Weasley's in specifically, or any other member of the magical community in general." Harry chewed this over for a moment.

"I eat lunch with Hermione sometimes; I make the sandwiches, and she brings the juice." Thurmar nodded.

"And the Weasley's?" Harry shook his head, averting his eyes. He was sitting cross-legged in his favorite plush armchair in the office in which he spent every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon.

"When was the last time you saw them?"

"I don't know… It's been about four months, I guess."

"Not since the funeral?"

"No." Harry didn't like to think about the day of the mass funeral held for those who perished at Hogwarts, when he'd fallen apart. He had hyperventilated, taking each stabbing breath with increasing effort, until everything went fuzzy and his head was in Ginny's lap.

"You miss them, though."

"I guess."

"You guess?

"I guess." The truth was that he wasn't sure. He preferred to spend most of his time alone, but thoughts of the family he didn't deserve always found their way into his head.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

Silence interrupted only by the scratching of Thurmar's quill.

"What about Ginny?"

"What _about_ Ginny?"

"Do you want to talk about her?

'Not with you,' he thought suddenly, savagely. Thurmar seemed to understand this train of thought, but didn't comment.

"Is there anything else going on? Anything small?"

Harry thought for a moment. Nothing seemed small- even getting out of bed was usually an ordeal in and of itself.

"I'm reading a book."

"Oh?" Thurmar was looking up now. "What book?"

"Catcher in the Rye. It's muggle, you probably don't know of it." Harry was focusing on the frays in his shoe laces.

"I've read it. Are you enjoying it?"

"It's my favorite. I mean… I've read it before." His cheeks rushed scarlet.

"Yes, many people love it- they find it highly relatable." Thurmar went back to his notes, suddenly scribbling furiously. "How many times have you read it?" An indistinguishable mumble replied to him. "Sorry?"

"Fourteen."

"I see." Thurmar clasped his uncaloused hands loosely. "A favorite book can be a great source of comfort- in a way, the protagonist becomes something of a confidante." Harry nodded slowly.

"You find yourself relatable to Holden." Harry shrugged.

"I thought we were talking about something 'small'?" His tone was distinctly bitter.

"It's the combination of the small things that shape us, not the intervening calamities. Harry," Harry's brow furrowed, his shoe laces drawing his gaze. "Harry, please look at me."

Slowly, their eyes met. "Nothing can hurt you in here. I'm here to help you, to make you feel safer, happier, healthier, and for a dozen other reasons. You can relax."

Harry's eyes returned to his laces. "I just don't feel like talking today." He mumbled.

"Well, what's our number one rule in here?"

"I don't have to do anything that I don't want to do."

"That's right. Talking about something can sometimes almost be harder than actually doing it." Harry nodded.

I have a present for you." From beneath the notes, he extracted a small book. "This book is completely empty and completely yours. You can fill it with whatever you choose, or leave it blank if you want. It's yours. Have a good week-end."

And with that, the office door opened, and Harry took his leave.

…

"How's our project coming along?" He was always doing that, spreading the burden. Harry shrugged.

"What am I supposed to do with it?" It remained blank, yet he carried it in his pocket.

"Whatever you want. You can use it as a diary, or a day planner, or a paper weight. You can draw in it, write a letter, write a poem, have a one way conversation, or your grocery list. Do with it what you choose." A frustrated sigh came from the plush arm chair, and Harry was pulling his sleeves down past his wrist.

"Do I have to?"

"What's our rule?"

Harry nodded to himself, looking slightly reassured.

"So, anything?"

"Anything."

"To-do lists?"

"Sure"

"Dreams?"

"Why not?"

"Sex fantasies?"

Thurmar cocked his head slightly. "Absolutely. Have you been having any of those lately?" He shrugged and averted his eyes. "Harry, sex is a natural thing, and there is nothing wrong with thinking about it, to want it, to participate in it, to get creative with it-"

"Is it normal to not?" Harry suddenly looked worried. "I mean…" He was suddenly embarrassed. "I mean… you know… I used to, but…"

"Lack of sex drive isn't uncommon with accelerating depression. We're working on it." There was a pause.

"And the book will help?"

"If you let it." Harry furrowed his eyebrows.

"Did you get the idea from Catcher?"

Thurmar smiled slightly. "No, it's a common practice in treating the problems you share with Holden. And, as you may have noticed, you weren't set to the exact same task. Holden was ordered to write down exactly what happened before his breakdown. You have much more freedom regarding your expression."

Harry breathed deeply, and then "So, do I actually have to talk about-"

"Harry, look at me." Their eyes met. "What's out rule in here?"

"What-"

"I want to make sure that we're all clear on what's going on here. You keep saying that you 'have' to do this, and you 'have' to do that. Now, what's our rule?"

Harry's bright green eyes filled with tears and his cheeks flushed pink with the reprimand. He finally succumbed to the urge to break the eye contact. "I don't have to do anything I don't want to do," he muttered.

"Harry," Harry folded into himself.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay." A moment passed, and then, "That book is yours to do with as you please. Just don't throw it away. You can show it to your friends or keep it private. I may ask if I can take a look in the future, but you have every right to say 'no'."

Harry nodded, his eyes closed, and his eyelashes shined with the tears that threatened to overwhelm him.

"There's no shame in crying, Harry," Thurmar pointed out as Harry hastily swiped a rebellious tear from his cheek. "You're talking to me because you need help. So, why won't you help yourself?"

"Crying doesn't help anything," he shot, his voice thick. "It doesn't bring anyone back, it doesn't change what happened, it doesn't make everything go back to normal, so what's the fucking point?"

Thurmar nodded. "No, it doesn't change circumstances. But it _does_ help you deal with what has been set before you. Our emotions can be tricky, but it's important that we listen to them."

Harry was struggling to catch his breath. "I… I h-h-hate crying…" his face was now shinning in tracks that ran from his eyes to his jawbone, and droplets were forming on his lap.

"Do you hate actually crying, or crying in front of other people?"

Harry was now struggling to mop himself up. His shoulders were shaking with sobs that he was failing to suppress.

"Is that maybe why you ran?" Thurmar asked gently, moving closer. Harry, who was starting to moan pitifully, pulled his skinny legs up onto the chair, and buried his face in his knees.

"Harry?" he whispered, now at his side. "I- I- I d-don't want t-t-to talk ab-bout it." He gasped.

"Okay." said Thurmar, his finger tips tracing concentric circles at the hairline on the back of his patient's neck.


	3. Out of the Hole and into the Burrow

This is my least favorite of all of the chapters, but I DO have much more (and much better) ready to go and coming very soon. Keep reviewing, I love it- and do not be too shy to send me something directly- I am always here at

**Chapter 3: Out of the Hole and Into the Burrow**

"How's work?" Hermione asked as they walked through the park. It had now been four months since he had started working under Kingsley in the reshuffled Auror department, and six since he had spoken to the Weasleys.

"Lots of paperwork, I guess." In truth, the paperwork was his favorite part, when he did not have to talk to anyone, conduct painful interviews, and attend difficult trials or dual during arrests.

"Thurmar? Is that working out okay?" He shrugged.

"He… he reckons maybe I should look for a flat. And a roommate."

"That sounds lovely." It had been Hermione who had pointed him in Thurmar's direction.

"I won't sell it," he said suddenly, and she knew he was talking about Sirius' house, in which he was still living.

"Are you considering renting it out?" He shook his head. "Well, I figured as much." They stopped for a to-go cup of tea. "So… about this roommate- any ideas as to who?"

"Not really… unless you're looking to live off-campus?" She was attending a muggle university, her major undeclared. She shook her head.

"You know I'd love to, but-"

"It's fine." _Damn_, he thought. He had been counting on her.

"What about Neville or Seamus?" Dean had been killed at Hogwarts, but he had already roomed with the other two. He shook his head.

"Seamus is sloppy."

"And Neville?"

"Neville snores."

"I see."

She was thinking. Did she dare…?

"What about… I mean, have you spoken to Ron?"

He was concentrating on his steaming Styrofoam cup. "Harry? Have you spoken to Ron?"

"No."

"Why are you mad at him?"

He paused, and then "I'm not."

"You haven't spoken to any of them in months, and don't say that you've been too busy to even say 'hi', you and Mr. Weasley work in the same _department. _This was true- he had been having a hell of a job ducking out of sight whenever Mr. Weasley made his way 'round the corner.

"They won't want to see me." He kept his eyes forward, but hers were trained on his unreadable expression.

"They miss you."

"How do _you_ know?"

"I eat dinner at the Burrow when I'm not with my parents. Last night, your name came up, and they asked me to pass along the message: 'we miss you'. Ginny especially, if you want to know the truth," she added thoughtfully.

"I've been gone too long. It's too late."

"It's never too late for family," she reassured him, her voice lowered. His brows furrowed.

"They're going to be mad."

"They'll understand."

"How do you know?"

"How do _you_?"

The tea was gone, but the chill remained in the crisp, late autumn air of the early evening. The sky was darkening fast, a similar shade to the bags beneath Harry's eyes.

"Are you getting hungry?" As he was putting on weight, Thurmar was helping him learn to listen to what his body needed.

"A bit- do you want to get supper?"

"Pizza sounds good."

"What about-"

"Tonight?" He had not expected her to try to bring him back so soon. With the exception of work, Thurmar and Teddy, he tried to stay in the muggle world.

"There's no time like the present." She waited for what felt like an eternity while she knew a battle was being waged in his head. Finally, he gave a small nod. She led him into an alley, grasped his hand reassuringly, and turned sharply, leading him into suffocating nothingness.

…

The air was different, as though from a forgotten world. It was cleaner and… friendlier? He opened his eyes, and there stood the Burrow.

"Hold on-" she said. Her telltale silver otter erupted against the setting sun and scampered off ahead of them. "So they know to expect us," she clarified.

It seemed to take an eternity to reach the front door. Everything looked the same, right down to the scuffmarks on the back porch. Hermione knocked sharply, and there seemed to be a minor stampede for the door. It flew open, and at the front was Mrs. Weasley with a relieved smile. She pulled Hermione into a big hug, and nodded as though agreeing to something being whispered in her ear.

As she moved on to Harry, he saw Mr. Weasley, his forehead creased, Percy with an unknown girl, and Charlie with a curious amount of soot on his face and in his hair. The kitchen fire erupted into green flames, and George stumbled through, followed by Ron. They were searching frantically with their eyes, and froze as Harry followed Hermione inside.

The silence was nothing short of awkward, until Ron said, "So, Mum… what's for dinner?"

"Oh, yes!" She jumped over to the stove, and Harry could tell that she was not expecting to feed this many people. He sniffed- Mrs. Weasley's onion soup, one of his favorites.

Everyone moved over to the table, Hermione next to Ron, Harry pinned between Charlie and his father. He was the only one not making forced conversation. "Okay, dinner's ready." Mrs. Weasley called out. She levitated toe large, steaming pot over to the table; Harry kept his eyes trained on her wand.

A bowl was placed before him, and his mouth began to water.

"So, how's London, Ron?" Mrs. Weasley asked.

"It's fine- business is picking up."

"You're in London?" Harry asked, speaking for the first time. He had not known that he had been in the same city as his best friend. _But of course he is, idiot, where else would he be?_

"Yeah, I'm in with George, working in the store, you know…" So, he had taken Fred's place. At least he had not been alone… he had a good job, a nice flat, a supportive family, an amazing girlfriend… It was odd to think that not long ago, _Ron_ had been jealous of _Harry_.

He nodded, and went back to slowly sipping his soup. Glancing up, everyone was watching him. Unable to meet anybody's eyes, he went back to his meal.

"So, Charlie," said Hermione, "have you talked to Ginny today?" This was an oddly leading question.

"Yeah, err, she had to work tonight."

_Ginny, working? Since when?_ They had been very close, and had shared the most intimate details, and yet somehow he could not picture her in a professional setting.

"Oh, at the _pub down in the village_?" There was no doubting what she was doing now- she was trying to get him to talk about her, _to_ her if she could manage it. "How does she like it?"

"Okay, I guess… after dinner, I'm going down there- do you guys want to come?"

'Sounds good', or various versions of said phrase, echoed around the table from everyone except Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. The conversation shifted to work, and remained shallow. Charlie would be leaving for El Salvador soon, to continue his work with dragons; Bill was apparently back at Gringotts. Of course, Harry knew that Mr. Weasley was back at the Ministry, but was surprised to hear that Mrs. Weasley was taking work as a seamstress.

"It keeps her busy," Mr. Weasley muttered to Harry. How could he have not realized how alone she must feel, with Fred gone, all of her living sons all moved out, and her husband and only daughter (who was also the only child of hers who still lived at home) were both working full time.

They stayed at the table for over an hour, talking lightly of jobs and families- the stranger was named Lucy, and she had come to Britain from San Francisco as a student. While interning in Percy's department, the two had become involved, and during the estrangement from the rest of his family, Percy had become a father to Emma Weasley. They lived in New Castle.

Conversation wore thin, and Charlie stood, announcing his departure and inviting the rest of the table to join him. Everyone rose, and good-bye's were coupled with hugs from the parents and a very sad expression on Mrs. Weasley's face.

They were outside. "Well, I should get going…" Harry started, but they would not have it. George clapped him on the shoulder and steered him down the road, around the trees, and toward the lights in the valley below.

Percy and Lucy were holding hands, as were Ron and Hermione. George and Charlie flanked Harry, as though being guarded from his obvious loneliness.

They made their way into a town Harry had seen a million times but had never entered. It was nice, being with his dearest friends and not being stared at b y passers-by.

The pub was very full- it was a Friday night- and Harry couldn't stop himself searching the crowd for his favorite person, perhaps (his chest went cold just thinking about it) far too close to some tall, handsome, un-scarred, normal-weighted guy with nice teeth and good hair, and- _there she is_, he thought as the world ran out of air.

She was behind the bar, her thick red hair longer than he remembered. Her eye make-up made her look as though she had aged several years- or had she simply matured past him? He could not see her lower half, but her black long-sleeved shirt was far lower cut than anything she would have worn in public when they had been together (though admittedly, he had seen her in far less).

"Harry?" Hermione turned around when she realized he was not with them. She saw him through the front window, walking very fast with his arms crossed in a defensive manner. "Harry!" she called. Several heads turned, including the barmaid's.

Throwing her coat back over her shoulders, she called behind her "Stay here!" and flew out after him. The bottom of his long coat whipped out of sight around the corner of the pub. _He's disapparated_, she thought, panicking, but was proven wrong when she followed him.

He was in an alley between the pub and the local grocery, leaning against the cold red bricks. His eyes were closed, his breathing was heavy, and his head was tilted back so that his pale face was pointed toward the frozen, cloudy night sky.

"Harry?" she asked, her voice extremely gentle. "Are you okay?" He dropped his head, the muscles around his mouth suddenly tight and quivering. He shook his head 'no'.

"I-I shouldn't have c-c-come b-back," he gasped between labored breaths, his voice thick.

"Oh, Harry," She moved closer. He was shivering- he had left so fast, he hadn't even bothered to re-fasten his coat. She pulled the buttons together, fished his scarf out of his pocket, and fashioned it around his neck. She placed one hand on either side of his thin face and wiped away his tears with her thumbs. Enveloping him in a great hug, she asked, "Do you want me to take you home?"

He sniffed heartily. "I don't know where that is," he whispered miserably. She held on to him until the sobs subsided, and then pulled away to face him.

"What do you want to do?" He looked to the side and shrugged. "Do you want to go back inside?" It was starting to snow- the first snow.

"She won't want me in there."

"How can you know that? There are plenty of other people who do."

"Yeah?"

"Of course."

"My face… I mean, does it look like I was-"

"Like you were out in the cold, yes."

He waited a moment. "Are you sure? Because I can't… they'll laugh at me, and…"

"No one's going to laugh." she said firmly, and it was true. She had gone to great lengths to explain to them all how serious Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder could be, especially when gone untreated as long as Harry had done. None of them disagreed that there was very little in this world less funny than his situation. When asked 'What should we do?' she had simply replied 'Love him and be patient. It's all we _can_ do.'

He breathed out "Are you sure?"

"Positive."

…

He was next to Ron now, and the seat on his other side at the circular table was empty.

"Hey, I thought I told you lot to never come back in here." Ginny teased her brothers as she approached, a pen in one hand and a small notepad in the other. She was pulled halfway down as she was caught in what seemed to be millions of one-armed hugs. Now that he could see her properly, it was with a pang that he noticed how much she had grown up, and yet still looked like his Ginny.

"So, boys, what's your poison?" They ordered around the table, before she got 'round to Harry. It was the first time he had heard her say his name in so long, and it felt like something sharp was lodged in his throat when he tried to speak.

"Water's fine." Those two words seemed to cost him everything as he met her eyes. He couldn't read her face, but he had seen the expression before, when he had first kissed her, and at Dumbledore's funeral- being near her was almost harder than being away from her.

"Just water?"

"Please." Everyone was watching him, including Ginny, until she walked away. The silence was awkward, with Harry staring determinately down at the table.

Finally, Ron asked "So, England vs. Thailand coming up- anybody interested in getting tickets? It should be a good one…"

_Quidditch_, Harry thought as though he had forgotten of the sport's existence. The drinks came, then the seconds, and yet the water went untouched. Ginny's shift ended, and she came to them bearing shots and plopped down next to him.

As the alcohol started pouring, and as he was the only sober member of their group, the conversation kept shifting abruptly, sometimes completely excluding him.

"Why aren't you drinking?" Slurred Ginny, several shots beyond her limit.

"Ginny," Hermione reprimanded, her eyes bloodshot from the smoke around the table (everyone was smoking, Harry more so than anyone else) and her face flushed.

"What? I think _I_ have a right to know… I mean, he left _me_, he ignored _me_, he fell out of love with _me_, and now he's too good to _drink_ with _me_. I want to know why."

"I think you've had enough, Gin," said the girl called Lucy, and Harry was grateful.

"No, I'm not done yet." She turned back to him. "Well?"

"I just… I'm not a drinker-"

"Bullshit." She cut across him. "Admit it- you don't want to be anywhere _near_ any of us, let alone _me_."

"No, I- I don't drink," he tried feebly, but her words rung in his ears, and it was as though his throat was being pulled on from the inside like a bell tower. He was mortified to find that his vision was blurring.

"Oh, go ahead and cry, _coward_," she spat.

"That's _enough_, Gin." Ron spoke this time. She stopped.

"It's late," said Percy. "Are you all okay on getting home?" Next to Harry, he was the most sober of the group. Ginny wound up staying the night at Lucy's flat in New Castle (she was too drunk to go home to her parents). Percy guided Charlie home by apparition, then returned to help Ron and George. It was just Harry and Hermione, now.

She hugged him, and he felt her lead him through the apparition process. When he opened his eyes, he was in a comfortably small flat, in which Ron was doing a poor job of making up a soft-looking couch for sleeping.

"All right?" he asked. Harry didn't trust himself to speak- if he opened his mouth, he would probably end up sobbing hysterically for the second time that night. He allowed a small nod of the head.

"Well, g'night," he muttered, pulling Harry into a brief brotherly hug, before heading through a door, Hermione in tow.

"Sweet dreams," she called back to him, before letting it swing almost all the way shut.

Percy had finished with George, and left after only a few short words with Harry. Climbing into his makeshift bed, he tried to block out George's snores, and consequentially cried himself to sleep while trying not to listen to Ron and Hermione's drunken lovemaking.


	4. Buckets of Rain, Buckets of Tears

Ha-ha, chapter four, up so soon… Happy Earth Day. In addition, as a special prize, anyone who can give me the source of the chapter title via e-mail will get a special sneak-peak of the next chapter a full 24 hours before posting.

**Chapter Four: Buckets of Rain, Buckets of Tears**

The light was so intense, it seemed to be burning holes through her eyes and into her head- and then the nausea came. Leaping off of the couch, she barely made it to the bathroom in time when she let loose the remnants of the vodka that was too much for her tiny frame.

"Ginny?" came the female voice with the American lilt.

"Ugh…" was all she could muster in reply.

"Serves you right after last night." Lucy taunted, shifting Emma from one hip to the other. Ginny looked up from the toilet to the doorway.

"What did I do?" she asked apprehensively. The whole night after shot number five was blurry.

"Oh, you mean aside from the fact that you were too hammered to be around your parents? Or that you screamed at Harry until he cried?"

"I made him _cry_?" she had envisioned their reunion to be a merry one, with lots of apologies and snogging, but apparently-

"You'll be lucky if you see him again." Ginny tried to move from her spot, and found herself vomiting again. When it passed, she asked "Where is he?"

"How should _I_ know? I was too busy trying to calm _you_ down"

"I have to find him." She stood up, and caught a glimpse of her gruesome hung-over appearance. After cleaning up and dawning borrowed clothes, she apparated to Diagon Ally.

"How's being evil treating you?" asked George as she entered his shop.

"Where's Harry?" Ron was suddenly behind her, looking murderous. "You _knew_ he was messed up. What'd you have to go after him for?"

"I didn't-"

"You didn't _what_? You didn't make his coming back any easier, that's for sure. You didn't have to mop him up this morning, spending over an hour trying to get him off of the couch he was sleeping on.

"What you _did_ do, however, was probably push him away forever. Do you have ANY IDEA how hard it was to get him down to that pub in the first place? DO YOU?" He was yelling now, people were staring, and her quilt mounted as his words resonated painfully in her skull.

"I don't even remember," she muttered, her eyes filling.

"Lucky you." Came George from behind the counter.

"Where is he?"

"Gone."

"_Gone?_" she asked, horrified.

"Gone."

"Where?"

"Away."

"Come on," she pleaded to her brothers, "please, I just want to talk to him…" The boys exchanged looks, and Ginny could tell they were silently agreeing on something.

"He was here." Said George. "He slept upstairs. This morning, we saw how messed up he was, and so Hermione carted him off for a marathon session with his shrink.

She nodded, pushed her way into the back room, and cried.

…

"She hates me," he slipped out over his messy crying. He had been in Thurmar's chair for two hours- his psychiatrist had cleared his whole day's schedule when he saw his distressed patient.

"Because you wouldn't drink?" Harry nodded.

"She was going to forgive me, but I- I couldn't even take the stupid drink." He took several steadying breaths. "Why am I such a cock-up?" he asked, his gaze searching, pleading.

"You're not."

"I was just being st-stupid anyway," he hiccupped, "thinking a girl like her would take back a guy like me."

Thurmar's forehead creased. "'A guy like you'? What does that mean, exactly?" harry shook his head. "Harry,"

"I don't want to." The room was quiet, save for his ragged breathing.

"Are you hungry?" The typical shrug came as his reply. "Chinese?" Thurmar used a telephone to order muggle take-out –an act he knew Harry appreciated.

…

"How are the noodles?" asked Thurmar, using mastery over chopsticks.

"Fine," said Harry, twirling them around his fork like spaghetti.

"And the beef?"

"Spicy."

"Is that okay?"

Harry shrugged.

"So, are you thinking of going back?"

"She said she hated me."

"Did she actually use those words?"

"She _implied_ it."

"So, you're going to let her drunken implications change the course of your life?"

"People say what they mean when they're drunk," he spat back. "It's the only time they're honest."

"You weren't drinking," he pointed out, his voice soft.

"Yeah, well…"

"It must have brought back plenty of memories," said Thurmar. Harry shrugged, concentrating on his nearly full plate.

"I just don't want to be like him."

"There's nothing wrong with that- he doesn't sound like he was a very good role-model." Harry frowned. "He drank a lot?" He squeezed his eyes shut. "And that's when he'd hit you- when he'd been drinking." This was not a question.

"What did he say when he was hitting you?" Harry sniffed, beginning to cry for what felt like the millionth time in the past two days. "Harry?"

"Freak," he breathed.

"Sorry?

"He called me _freak_." He said clearly.

Thurmar didn't say anything, but scribbled on his notes. "And you think he was telling the truth?" Harry let out a choked sob.

"You're not a freak, Harry."

"I'm _ugly_." His voice and expression certainly were.

"No, you're not."

"Why else wouldn't she want me? She did before…"

"Before what?"

"Before I left. She grew up, and now looks even _more_ amazing, if you'll believe it, and I just…"

"You just what?"

"She needs to be with someone else."

"Someone else?"

"Yeah?"

"Someone better?"

"Yeah." He suddenly looked relieved, as though they were on the same page.

"Someone who never let their drunken uncle beat them?"

"SHUT UP!" Harry was suddenly at his feet. "JUST-SHUT-UP!"

"Harry," said Thurmar, remaining painfully calm.

"DON'T! DON'T EVER TELL ANYBODY, **EVER**. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

"I do."

"Good," Harry choked out, pacing now. "I shouldn't have even told _you_, if you're going to just-"

"It's your secret to share with whom you choose." Harry was furiously wiping his face.

"Harry, it was before you even _liked_ Ginny, that can't be all that's going on."

"It doesn't matter how long ago it was, it still happened, and-"

"I know."

"I just-"

"You've been thinking about it a lot lately." Harry nodded. "Do you want to clean up the mess?" Blushing, Harry reached down and tried to clean up his spilled food. "Here, let me help." Thurmar waved his wand, and the mess was gone. "Do you want to sit down?"

Back in the chair, Harry folded back into himself. "I'm sorry…"

"It's been a while since your last outburst."

"I don't like it when you bring that stuff up."

"Of course you don't- but do you really think that advice will make it all go away?"

"I want it to."

"Well, you've been avoiding it for a long time, and that's a lot to avoid. The cutting is evidence to that."

"I don't do that anymore," he defended himself quickly.

"May I see?" Harry pulled his sleeves down lower, looking nervous. The silence was heavy.

"Have you been writing?" Harry shook his head. "Do you need help with it?" Again, another head shake, more firmly this time.

"Would you consider talking to Ginny when you're both sober?"

"She won't want to."

"Well, maybe if you tried-"

"We've been over this."

"How you're not good enough."

"Yup."

"How she deserves better."

"Are you _trying_ to hurt me?"

"No, I'm just trying to understand you."

"There's nothing to understand."

"Are you sure? You seem like a pretty complicated guy." Harry didn't answer, but was staring at a book on Thurmar's shelf. It was leather-bound, and looked a lot like his photo album. He had never shared it to anybody, but maybe…

"Aside from the cutting, and the beatings, and the situation with He-Who-Must-Not-B-Named, and Sirius dying, and the betrayal by Dumbledore, and your confusion with Snape, and your high-pressure job, and your debilitating depression, and the heroic stature you feel you don't deserve, and never having a real family, and being estranged from your dearest friends, and being rejected by the love of your life, is there anything else bothering you?"

Harry looked as though he had been slapped.

"Harry,"

"What?" He sounded scared.

"We can move as slowly as you need- but we need to _move_. Let's just get it all on the table now, and that'll be the worst of it."

"What are you-"

"We don't want to do too much at once, but we also don't want to do _nothing_."

"So, you want me to tell you everything, and call it a _baby step?_"

"I want you to let me help you. We'll go inch by inch, and what you feel you cannot let me know. You can use your book."

"Why can't we just keep going like we have been?"

"Because we seem to be cranking down, and it's obviously hurting the relationships that you managed to keep healthy for a long time."

Harry said quietly "But you _just said_ that we'd go at my pace…"

"And we will. I'm just letting you know that we're going to kick it up a notch."

"That doesn't even make any sense."

Thurmar cocked his head to the side and studied him for a while. Harry was reminded forcibly of Voldemort, just before he severed the bond that had connected them for so long- and then, the image of his dead body found itself stuck in Harry's mind's eye.

"People who have had a traumatic experience often find that the event itself is etched into their memory as though it had happened but five minutes ago, yet the immediate recuperation afterward seems hazy. Your life has been one trauma after another, and there's no doubting that it's a miracle that you turned out as well as you have. I suspect that now, as we're pushing full-steam ahead, _everything_ looks a little confusing."

As wrong as he knew it was, he couldn't stop his imagination from picturing Thurmar shifting between Voldemort in the forest, his wand raised, and Dumbledore at king's Cross, Harry's own subconscious manifesting itself to give him the answers he already had.

He looked away, trying only to hear the voice. "I don't like this," he breathed.

"I know." The snow pilling up on the ledge outside the window was making dark seem to approach unusually fast. "You know how you told me to not tell anyone about the situation with your uncle?"

"You didn't, did you?" he asked very fast, suddenly panicky. "Because it's really not even worth mentioning, it was a really long time ago, and-"

"Harry." He stopped. "I was going to say that you have nothing to worry about. Don't you remember our first session? And our second? And almost every session for the first several months? I am your healer, and you are my patient. I am bound by magical contract to keep your confidence- not that I wouldn't anyway. You trusted me when you told me those things. Now you need to believe that trusting me was probably one of the best things you've ever done for yourself."

Harry nodded, his eyes closed, and breathed out through his nose.

"Do you trust me?" Harry looked up, and the look in Thurmar's eyes was just like the look in Dumbledore's when he was giving the instruction for obedience before going to the cave.

"Yes."

"Do you want my advice?"

"Yes."

"Talk to her."


	5. Intervention

"Does that seem reasonable, Harry?" Thurmar asked softly.

Harry kept his eyes trained on the fraying hem of the sweatshirt that he was absentmindedly pulling at. He couldn't possibly do what was being asked of him, no matter how kindly the 'recommendation' was phrased. It didn't matter if his 'support group' was 'here for him, all the way'- Mrs. Weasley gently touched his hands, and they stilled under hers.

"Harry?" she asked from beside him on the sofa at the Burrow. "What do you think? It won't be so bad, staying here for a little while…. We can make up Percy's old room-"

"I don't need to be babysat." This was muttered quietly to Thurmar, but the rest of the room- Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Ginny, Hermione, Ron, George, Bill, Fleur, Mrs. Tonks (holding a sleeping Teddy) and Kingsley- heard it clearly.

"We all know that," said Kingsley, and Harry looked up to meet his gaze, "but I can't ignore Healer Thurmar's recommendation. You need to get healthy, and _that's_ not going to happen as long as you're living in Sirius's old room. The sooner you're well, the sooner you can return to work."

"But-"

"You failed your physical exam- _again_- and you failed your psych test. _Again_. You always asked me to avoid showing preferential treatment, and I would have removed anyone else with your scores from active duty a long time ago."

Harry looked around the room, searching for an advocate. He avoided eye contact with Ginny, choosing instead to speak to Andromeda. "But I won't see Teddy as much."

"You'll have him from nine until five on Mondays and Tuesday s." She pulled her sleeping grandson closer to her body.

"That's not enough!"

"We both know that our current schedule is inconvenient at best. He needs more stability, as do you."

Silence again, until Bill spoke up. "You've spent the last seventeen years serving other people for nothing in return. Please let us begin to return the favor."

Harry pulled his hands away from Mrs. Weasley and wrung the hem of his sweatshirt, his shoulders near his ears and his elbows tight against his rib cage, as though to make himself as small as possible. Nobody spoke for several long minutes and Harry could feel every eye in the room on him, taking in every fidget, every shuddering breath.

"I'm not crazy."

"We all know," said Thurmar, "and we all love you very much. We only want to help."

"I don't need-"

"You tried to kill yourself." These were Ginny's first words of the night. "You don't eat, you don't sleep, when you're not doing other people's paperwork at the Ministry you're crying your eyes out in Sirius's wardrobe… and two weeks ago, you laid down in your bath tub and opened your wrists with a rezor blade.

"Look me in the eyes and tell me that you don't need help. I know that you don't want it, but you do _need_ it." Harry looked her in the face, but found her eyes too difficult to meet. He settled instead for the bridge of her nose. He spoke slowly.

"I don't need-"

"Liar."

"I just meant that-"

"I know what you mean, and you're not getting away with it. Not this time."

"What d'you-"

"You know what I mean. You're distancing yourself. Again. To keep from getting hurt. Again. And it's not going to work."

"Why not?

"Because you're already hurting as much as humanly possible. How much worse can it get?"

Harry let out a breath that he didn't know that he was holding, paused, and then turned to Thurmar. "Where do I sign?"

With a shaky hand, Harry took a quill and wrote his name on a line at the bottom of a contract- a contract that stated that he, Harry James Potter, would live under the care of Arthur and Molly Weasley until Healer Nathan Thurmar determined otherwise, and that they would have a durable power of attorney over him; that he, Harry James Potter, would consuly weekly with a psychiatrist asn a nutritionist, and daily with a personal trainer; that he, Harry James Potter, would make a good faith effort to maintain intrapersonal relationships, both within and outside of his support group; that he, Harry James Potter, would do all that is within his power to get well again… to be able to perform magic again.


End file.
